


Slow and Steady Pace

by Sporadic_Writer



Category: The Avengers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sporadic_Writer/pseuds/Sporadic_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil doesn't understand why Clint wants to date him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and posted this story on LJ in 2013, and I am just archiving it here.

Status of work: Complete.  
Disclaimer: I don't own this.  
Fandom: The Avengers movie.  
Characters and/or pairings: Phil/Clint, Natasha, Hill, Sitwell.  
Rating: Mature.  
Warnings, kinks & contents: Sexual situations near the end. Mild swearing.  
Length: 10,345 words.

A/N: I have a weakness for romance and fluff, but lately, I've been getting tired of stories in which the two characters meant to be together have a smooth, automatic soulmate-type connection. I suppose it's because relationships usually aren't so easy in real life. So, I decided to write a story in which the falling in love part ties into trust issues and takes its time.

Summary: Phil's not sure why Barton thinks they could have a relationship, and it's exasperating.

 

“Whoa, check out your 12 o'clock, Coulson,” Sitwell drawled. “Hawkeye keeps looking over here. Do we need to have a little conversation about the birds and the bees and the reasons you don't want to piss off the assassins in our little government clubhouse?”

“Maybe he's looking over because he knows you're the one who keeps putting stale Cadbury crème eggs in his locker,” Phil countered, ignoring the telltale feel of eyes on his back from across the room.

“I'll take you down with me,” Sitwell warned, grinning broadly. “I may be the prankster, but you're my supplier; the accomplice always gets it too.”

“Hmm, I doubt it. Ask Barton who gave him your office code last month.”

Sitwell gaped unbecomingly. “That was you? Jeezus, Phil, you're a jackass! It took forever to hoover up the confetti.”

“Feel sorry for the janitorial staff. They're the ones who always have to clean up your little war with Barton. Should I be sensing some UST?” Phil teased, squinting at his half-eaten lasagne; he wasn't sure those green bits were really spinach.

Sitwell rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Don't talk to me about UST. Every single time I'm in the same room as you and Barton, I feel like I should be shouting, 'Kiss! Kiss!'”

Phil made a rude noise that he'd deny if any eavesdroppers heard. “You're making things up; we barely talk to each other.”

Sitwell tossed a few more fries into his mouth; he gestured at Barton with the last one. “Phil, you've been to Egypt. Don't make me bring up denial.”

 

Tetris is really soothing, Phil decided, as he started a new game on his laptop and contentedly stacked the colored blocks on top of each other. At the sound of a knock sounding on his door, he quickly x-ed out of the program and pulled a stack of reports closer to him. “Door's not locked,” he called, wondering if Fury had made good on his vow to play hooky during the next useless Council meeting.

Clint Barton walked into his office, and Phil tried not to frown at the intense look in the man's eyes. He fiddled nervously with his papers for a moment before setting them aside and smiling amiably even as he wondered if Hawkeye had the ears to match. It would be very embarrassing, to say the least, if his less than professional conversation with Sitwell had been heard.

“What can I do for you, Barton?” Phil asked, bringing his cup of coffee to his mouth.

“I like you, and I want you to go out with me.”

Coffee held frozen midway, Phil stared Barton hard in the eyes and wondered if he was getting pulled into the prank war regardless of his insistence on staying neutral. He waited for Barton to break into hoots and start crowing over the dumbfounded look on his face. He waited. His wall clock ticked along the seconds, and all he could hear was their quiet breathing.

Barton looked deadly serious, and Phil could tell that the other man wasn't going to leave easily without some kind of response, so he bought time by closing his laptop and setting his coffee mug down on his desk, without taking the sip he'd planned.

Barton's eyes tracked his movements, and Phil wondered what those acute eyes could glean from what he's doing.

“I'm flattered that you feel that way,” Phil started, trying not to recite the words, “but SHIELD is like any other professional insular organization; dating coworkers isn't against official policy, but it is highly discouraged. I value our being able to work together, and I'm afraid that a romantic relationship would change that.”

Phil looked at Barton at the end of his answer and waited for the usual resigned reaction, but Barton tilted his head with a little smile playing on his lips, and asked curiously, “How many star-struck junior agents did you have to use that speech on?”

Blinking in surprise, Phil tried to recover the situation and hoped that a flush wasn't making its way up his neck. “I'm—this isn't a joke, Barton. I might have reminded some people of their primary duties, but it's not just a 'speech.' I mean every word of what I said. SHIELD's mission is our priority.”

Barton's sharp eyes softened every so slightly with the light of mutual understanding. “I get that, s— Coulson, and I'm not trying to lure you away from doing your job for SHIELD; I've got a job to do for SHIELD too. I just want you to think over whether we can't go out once in a while and have something together.”

“Barton,” Phil tapped his fingers on his desk exasperatedly. It just figured that Barton would be more stubborn than any of the other agents who'd fancied themselves in love with him; on the other hand, Barton hadn't used those exact words. “What exactly do you want?” If it was just sex...but he didn't want to insult Barton by being so crude. Still, he could drop mentions of various vetted escort services in the next few weeks and see if that solved the problem. It had done for 40% of his previous cases.

Barton looked as though he knew what Phil hadn't said anyway. “I'm not asking for marriage,” he scoffed. “Or a long-term commitment, so relax. I just don't have many friends in or outside of SHIELD, and if you have some of the same free time, then we can enjoy each other's company. That's all I'm looking for.

“Of course, I'm also hoping for sex being on the table sometime, but I can be patient,” Barton added bluntly with a grin that flickered to life on his face. Arms crossed, he leaned back against the wall in a sinuous sprawl that prompted lustful attention to his physique.

Phil hated that Barton sounded so persuasive and logical; his most rational brain cells were screaming that he would regret agreeing to the man's proposition. “We'll see,” his mouth said without any input from his brain. Damn it. That sounded too much like a 'yes.'

If Barton grinned or did a victory symbol, Phil would gladly have revoked his range time and made a strong take-back, but the other man just nodded seriously like they'd made a meaningful bargain, and then he left the room, thoughtfully closing Phil's door with a quiet click.

 

“Got a minute?” Barton asked, swinging into the free seat across from Phil in the cafeteria. He barely waited for Phil to look up before holding up a cheap flier. “A new kabob place, so they're offering a free drink with each order.”

Phil briefly contemplated being a vegetarian before he remembered that his congealing plate was filled with the remains of a beef stew. He hadn't really expected Barton to pursue his lukewarm acquiescence from last week. “Fine, when do you want to go?”

“Thursday looks good for me,” Barton offered. “I have a mission the following Monday, and it would be great to get some good food before shipping out to the middle of nowhere.”

Phil's lips twitched despite himself. Barton always referred to each and every location as 'the middle of nowhere.' The man sometimes seemed oddly like a homebody, and Phil couldn't deny that he found it a little endearing.

Unfortunately for Barton, the food was several steps away from being good or even being palatable; Phil chewed half-heartedly on one more piece of near-charcoal meat before reaching for the restaurant-baked bread, which was nicely firm. He thought the little restaurant would close before long, but it would be a shame to lose the bread, so he was going to enjoy the most of it.

Barton determinedly continued making headway through his second stick, but Phil raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed, giving it up as a bad job and reaching for a slice of bread. Phil handed him the little dish of sauce, and their fingers brushed in passing. Barton's gaze flicked up to meet Phil's, and he didn't move his hand.

“This isn't what I expected from a first date, Barton,” Phil said blandly, pulling his hand back to his side of the table.

Instead of being discouraged, the other man actually laughed—a loud bark that garnered attention from a few coeds who glanced over in annoyance before giggling with their heads together and trying to catch Barton's eye.

Oblivious, Barton looked a bit ruefully at his plate and poked the leftover kabob with his fork. “Don't worry; it's the last time I listen to random hawkers on the street for dinner recs. I'll make it up to you; dessert at any ice cream shoppe or café still open at this hour.”

“Oh, stop, you're spoiling me,” Phil said as dryly as he could. Barton's good-natured response to his ribbing made him feel a little guilty, and he picked off the chunks of beef to reach the slices of red pepper and mushroom. Those bits were still edible, if a little on the soggy side. How the kabobs could be both burnt and soggy was beyond him.

Barton was still talking. “...I actually did try them before, so I can guarantee that their pho is excellent. And their egg rolls have the right ratio of meat to veggie filling.”

“Oh?” Phil said belatedly, aware that he'd missed part of the conversation.

“Yeah,” Barton concluded, apparently not noticing or caring. “So, what do you think? Next month good for you? I have some downtime coming up soon.”

“Okay,” Phil agreed, a bit nonplussed that he'd not been paying attention earlier, and he returned Barton's brilliant smile before realizing that he'd just accepted another date. He opened his mouth, not wanting to lead Barton on, but then the bill arrived, which prompted a pro forma argument over who paid.

 

“Stark better be grateful we took out his latest set of kidnappers,” Agent Hernandez mumbled on the secondary line, as she tapped away on her computer, monitoring the inside feeds. Seated next to her, Phil watched the outside feeds, checking each bystander for suspicious behavior, and chuckled lightly, “Don't count on it.”

“All seven targets have been secured, sir,” Agent Deng announced crisply through the comms, and Phil could hear the rustling of the wind outside, and the murmuring of SHIELD agents wrapping things up and making plans for the downtime they'd been promised. “We have zero fatalities and only three injuries,” Deng summed up.

“Ow, that fucking hurt!” Agent Williams shouted, making everyone wince, before the medic treating him thoughtfully turned off his comm.

“And Williams has a fractured collarbone,” Deng explained, a smile in his voice as he patted the injured agent on the back.

“Good work, Agent Deng. You can send me the report tomorrow.” Sighing as his system came down from the adrenaline from the earlier mess, Phil sat back in his chair and wished that he had been out there. Unfortunately, carpal tunnel syndrome was a lot more painful and inconvenient than he'd been led to believe.

Hernandez sipped from her water bottle and began shutting down all the monitors. “I can drive the van back to Headquarters, if you want to start your vacation early, sir,” she offered generously.

Phil shook his head. “That's kind of you, Amy, but I plan on heading back to New York tomorrow afternoon.”

“You're not taking a vacation?” Hernandez looked a little baffled, and behind her professional facade, Phil could see the “Robot Coulson” rumors making their way through her head. “But you got carpal tunnel because you wouldn't stop working.”

“Not quite,” Phil corrected dryly. “I got carpal tunnel because I was the only one who knew how to operate a jack hammer, and we had to get Gupta out of the collapsed tunnel before he suffocated.”

Hernandez continued to eye him doubtfully. “I'll be fine, Amy; I'll get Deng or Morretti to drive the van, and I'll just ride with them.” He smiled gamely and made a shooing gesture. “Go on; enjoy your downtime and visit your sister.”

Once Hernandez had left, Phil opened the freezer and took out an ice pack; he could ice his arm for a bit before putting it back into the brace. He scratched gingerly at the pale, wrinkled skin, and he was about to make a sigh of relief when he felt a prickle on his neck.

“Arm still hurt, Coulson?” The shadows wavered and condensed to reveal Barton's broad form. He was full on grinning despite the heavy layer of soot on his face. Phil examined him and wondered if it was the lighting or whether Barton was bleeding from a cut near his eye. He decided to be kind and handed Barton a handkerchief, and the man accepted amiably, not seeming to read anything more into his courtesy.

“It's not the first time I've shot a bomb to disable it, but it is the first time I've gotten a bit too close to the blast radius,” Barton said a bit mournfully, wiping at his cheeks.

Phil studied him quietly. “You've been on back to back missions for the past few months. Take some time off now and recoup. We need you at your best for your mission with Hill.”

Barton folded the handkerchief in half and dabbed away at the area around his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I've been stiffer than usual. I could use a massage.”

Phil wondered if Barton was being euphemistic; if so, now would be a good time to steer Barton towards the discreet services being offered in town. “Some of the other agents plan on using their downtime here. It is Las Vegas after all.” All glitz, glamour, and gilt.

“Nah,” Barton demurred. “It's not really my kind of town. Still, I'm sure they have a Baskin Robbins or a Tom and Jerry's. Want to grab some ice cream?” He gestured at Phil's mushy ice pack. “You can always drip some of it onto your sore arm,” he said flippantly, with an inviting smile.

Phil's arm twinged painfully, and he decided that he could use a distraction. Anyway, it was just ice cream.

 

It was ice cream in 60°F. Barton shivered in his leather jacket, and he grinned brilliantly at Phil, his mouth a disorienting purple smear from the Gumball Dream, a cotton candy flavored ice cream with an incongruous mixture of multi-colored gumballs. Barton crunched down gleefully onto the little sugary spheres, chewing them into a giant wad that he molded into small, quickly deflating bubbles.

Phil spooned out another chunk of his Blueberry Crunch and savored the mixture of graham cracker pieces with the fruity ice cream. “I tried something similar in San Francisco, but I never really took to the multi-tasking.”

“Multi-tasking?” Barton laughed. “For ice cream?”

Phil shrugged in amusement. “Either you break the spirit of the ice cream by picking out all the gum balls beforehand, or you eat some ice cream, chew some gum, eat some more ice cream, chew some more gum. It got really tiring.”

Barton hopped onto a waist-high street pillar and settled on top, and he pulled Phil to the neighboring pillar. “You know, I don't really like this flavor either. You're right: it's a pain in the butt to eat, and the only reason I asked for it is because I used to really love it when I was a kid. Growing up in the circus, you get to have all kinds of crazy junk food, and you get a craving for it even though you feel sick once you're actually eating it again.”

Phil knew that Barton lived in a circus for a number of his adolescent years, but it was different to hear the details straight from the man himself. “Ice cream with gumballs isn't that bad. I always thought the deep fried chocolate chip cookie dough was terrible.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if they weren't getting into rather personal territory, but the clear interest on Barton's face made him finish the story. “My dad always had a weakness for it, so my mom would take control of the map at the beginning of the fair and steer us away from even the smell of the fried dough. The only exception she made was for my dad's birthday.”

Barton laughed low in his throat. “It takes a cast-iron stomach to keep that stuff down. My brother had a thing for the fried dough too. It was a good thing he had such high metabolism; otherwise, he'd look just like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”

“Ah,” Phil said carefully before occupying himself with mining for an actual blueberry in his ice cream. It took him some time.

Barton quirked a rueful smile. “Yeah, my murderous asshole brother. He was human once upon a time; he liked the ring and bottle game; he liked Sprite and Dr. Pepper; and he actually liked me.”

Phil had no idea what to say. He barely knew Barton, and the man was giving him an intimate look into the sob story that was his childhood. 'I'm sorry your life sucked' hardly seemed like an apropos response, so Phil said nothing.

Barton quickly finished his ice cream and started crunching on the sugar cone. Despite the depressing revelations, the man seemed content enough, nibbling slowly at the remaining cone and admiring the bright stars that fought with the hotel lights.

Phil tossed his spoon and carton into the nearby trash can before retaking his seat, and he too watched the night sky contemplatively. Vegas hardly had a bedtime, but when the streetlights came completely to life, he suggested that they take rooms at a nearby motel.

“Hey, Coulson,” Barton said suddenly after they had already exchanged goodbyes. Room key in hand, Phil turned around curiously. “Yes?”

“Just, thanks for listening,” Barton said simply before swinging his door open and disappearing into the unlit darkness.

Phil stared at the closed door frustratedly. What did Barton really want from him?

 

“You look like hell,” Phil told her kindly, handing over a styrofoam cup of chamomile tea.

Hill looked into the steaming cup and gave him the finger before ungraciously taking a sip. “You're a bastard, Phil. I'm in the hospital, and you refuse to get me coffee. Just wait your turn.”

“But Dr. Sun said that caffeine wouldn't be good for you,” Phil said mildly. “We have to follow the doctor's orders, you know.” He didn't hide his smile the second time Hill showed her gratitude.

She shifted uncomfortably, broken leg flat and still in its cast on the bed. Phil shifted the cushions until her leg was more elevated and took another pillow from the closet for her upper back.

Hill sighed with the lessening stress on her spine. “I'd ask you to marry me, but you'll get enough of that from the other agent you'll visit, so I won't bother.”

“Who else would I be visiting?” Phil asked bemusedly. He tried to check her IV line for the painkiller dosage without her noticing.

Cracking an eye open, Hill gave him an unamused look. “Acting dumb isn't cute at your age.”

“No, really, who else? Don't tell me Jasper or Amy had an accident on-base. I'll laugh myself sick, and I don't want to be your neighbor.”

“You really aren't the type to kiss and tell, huh.” Hill rolled her eyes and gestured imperiously for an ice chip. “Still, it's not a big deal to visit Barton. Everyone knows the fraternization policy is just a joke for the newbies.”

Phil froze with his hand in the ice cup. “Barton's in the hospital?”

Outside the door, Phil actually dithered: he walked in small circles in the hallway outside Barton's room before a stern look from the nurse on duty convinced him to go in. Barton's eyes were closed in peaceful sleep, and the slight rumblings of a snore filled the room.

He looked considerably worse than he had after the mission in Zimbabwe, the ugly one involving a mudslide and three terrorists. His face sported a few nasty looking lacerations, and the chart on the foot of his bed noted a serious concussion and a possible skull fracture. Phil shifted uncomfortably as he stood beside Barton's bed; he always made sure the person he was visiting was conscious and in the right mood for company. But he'd been too hurried to check this time.

Phil appraised Barton's sleeping face, and it didn't seem like the man would wake up anytime soon. A nurse would probably arrive in another hour or so to check his neurological signs, but Phil was hesitant to actually talk to Barton now that he was there by the man's sickbed. He'd considered visiting in tandem with Jasper, but Fury had sent him on a high-priority mission a day ago, and it wasn't likely he'd be back before Barton got out of the hospital.

Unsure what to do, Phil finally just placed the ziplock bag of washed grapes on the bedside table and stared at Barton's motionless body for a while. Feeling vaguely like a creeper, Phil eventually cleared his throat and said normally, “Get better, Barton.” Then, feeling like an idiot, he adjusted the blankets to cover Barton's chest a bit more—it would be bad for the man to catch a chill—and then left hurriedly.

He almost walked out of Medical before turning around and doing some sleight of hand near the front counter. He waited for the nurse on duty to notice and look for her missing pen, mouth frowning in frustration as she searched her paperwork. Then he swiped the visitor's list and carefully changed “P. Coulson” to “B. Coaleer.”

He was back out the door before the nurse gave up and reached for a new pen from the holder.

 

“Thanks for the corny get well card.”

Ready to deny making a visit, much less leaving washed, de-stemmed grapes, Phil automatically said, “That wasn't me” before Barton's words registered. Once they did, Phil, rather confused, actually looked up from his paperwork. “Wait, that really wasn't me.”

Barton cocked his head in surprise before thinking for a moment. “Oh, right, sorry, that was Sitwell. Thanks for the grapes though. They were good.”

“Sure,” Phil said awkwardly before nearly choking on his tongue as he tried to take the admission back.

Barton let him flounder for a minute before being generous and changing the topic. “I have no idea where Sitwell got that card. Even Hallmark doesn't write sappy things like that. I almost broke a rib after I read it.”

“He's incredibly resourceful,” Phil said honestly. “He just likes to use his powers for evil sometimes.”

Barton smirked. “Well, if you see him before I do, let him know that I'm hale and hearty and ready to take revenge for that plushy Big Bird toy he also left. Anyway, I'm really late, but pho tomorrow?”

Phil's thinking of an excuse already, but Barton hissed in pain and touched his left temple before taking out a bottle of Advil and dry-swallowing a few tablets.

“You're supposed to take that with food,” Phil reminded him, unable to stop the innate urge to corral risk-takers and get them to be reasonable. It probably had to do with being childhood friends with a guy like Nick, who only gained an ounce of sense once he became the head of SHIELD.

“Okay,” Barton said agreeably. “It's past 12 anyway. Join me for lunch?” He seemed to take Phil's silence as assent, and he slipped out with a grin, flashing a few fingers to indicate meeting Phil in the cafeteria soon.

Phil stared after him and resisted the urge to rest his head on his desk. How was it that every time he talked with Barton, he seemed to lose control of his faculties? He looked down at the reports that he still had to review and sighed deeply. Having been at his desk since 7, his eyes felt strained, and his back was in need of a good stretch. He could use a sandwich and a break to refuel before he finished going through the rest.

His computer beeped to signal the receipt of an e-mail with PRIORITY. Adrenaline flared through him as he read the subject line. He skimmed the pages, retaining as much information as he could, before starring the e-mail and sending it to its proper folder.

So, she had surfaced again. He was definitely going to lunch now; he was going to need all his energy to deal with the plan to capture the Black Widow.

Lunch with Barton was quieter than Phil expected, but his mind was still on the Black Widow report, and Barton himself seemed more subdued than usual. Probably the concussion having its lingering effects.

 

“Most agents think you sold your soul to the devil,” Phil observed lightly, his voice echoing across the open range, and his shoes made a measured tapping on the floor.

Barton kept nocking new arrows and firing them into the targets. Judging by the thick number of them already pinioning various circles in the air, he'd been at it for quite some time. “What do you think?”

“I think you kept practicing past the point at which anyone else would have gotten bored,” Phil admitted as he came closer, so they wouldn't have to shout at each other.

A reluctant grin curled Barton's lips, but the rest of his face remained grim as he finally put his bow down before swigging some water. “Looking for something?”

“Wondering something,” Phil corrected. “I was a bit surprised at your cancellation last night, and your excuse was really vague, not to mention full of holes.”

“Thought I'd give you a break, Coulson,” Barton said a bit caustically. “I didn't have the impression that you really enjoyed our time together.”

Part of Phil flinched at the accusation, but the rest of him, the consummate agent and bullshit-detector, was completely undeterred. Barton's unwarranted comment just steered him towards the truth, and he was going to get it.

“I'd accept that explanation if it were actually true, Agent Barton,” Phil said calmly. “But I do wonder at the timing.” Phil stepped into Barton's personal space, forcing eye contact. “I can't help you if you don't talk to me.”

Barton averted his eyes and roughly brushed past Phil, who breathed in sharply at the warm contact. “Trust me, Coulson. Our ability to work together wouldn't survive what I'd tell you. Leave it alone.”

Phil followed him to the showers, ignoring the scowl on Barton's face, as he realized that privacy and modesty weren't going to stop Phil. “What's changed?” Phil demanded.

Barton glared at him and defiantly began to strip down, starting with his pants. Willing his cheeks not to change color, Phil kept his eyes above Barton's neck and played dirty. “Trust me, Barton. Our ability to have a relationship wouldn't survive if you hide important things from me.”

Barton's lips thinned in anger, and Phil worried that he'd pushed the other man too far, but instead of storming out, Barton threw himself onto the bench and visibly tamped down his frustration with a barely audible growl. “SHIELD's going after the Black Widow.”

Phil waited patiently, still not looking down to precarious areas.

Barton twisted his hands together. “I know her, and I owe her something better than letting SHIELD hunt her down and end her for being a potential threat.”

It dawned on Phil that he'd asked for a confidence that he might not be ready to handle, but the gates were open, and Barton had already told him the most critical fact. “What were you going to do?” Phil asked in vague horror as he thought of Barton being shot down alongside the Black Widow in an ill-advised escape attempt.

“You know what I was going to do,” Barton said flatly. He looked at Phil with an unreadable look in his eyes. “Now what are you going to do?”

Head reeling, Phil had no idea what he was going to do. “What do you owe her?” he wondered more to himself than to Barton, but Barton answered anyway.

“My soul,” Barton said simply with a humorless, ironic smile, as he turned on the shower.

Leaving him there, Phil walked away, stomach churning and heart filling with turmoil. He had to talk with Fury.


	2. Chapter 2

Status of work: Complete.  
Disclaimer: I don't own this.  
Fandom: The Avengers movie.  
Characters and/or pairings: Phil/Clint, Natasha, Hill, Sitwell  
Rating: Mature.  
Warnings, kinks & contents: Sexual situations near the end. Mild swearing.  
Length: 10,345 words.

A/N: I have a weakness for romance and fluff, but lately, I've been getting tired of stories in which the two characters meant to be together have a smooth, automatic soulmate-type connection. I suppose it's because relationships usually aren't so easy in real life. So, I decided to write a story in which the falling in love part ties into trust issues and takes its time.

Summary: Phil's not sure why Barton thinks they could have a relationship, and it's exasperating.

Part 1

 

The Black Widow—Romanov—walked through the hallways of SHIELD like she expected a bullet in her back at any moment. Barton stayed at her side, but she remained a suspicious figure in Phil's mind for long weeks until Fury gave the final okay. Then the SHIELD agents who had been keeping their distance for various reasons began to thaw and even gravitate towards her. After all, the Black Widow might be a nightmare for various figures in the underground, but as far as many in SHIELD were concerned, she was on the same side of the moral line as they. Sitwell, in particular, seemed to go out of his way to be friendly, and Phil wondered if Romanov could appreciate his juvenile sense of humor, or whether he'd one day find his friend skewered with stainless steel.

Phil expected Hill to have an affinity for Romanov, but to his surprise, Hill seemed to regard the Black Widow with more reservations than anyone else.

“I thought you two would get along,” Phil remarked in the car, on their way to an intelligence-gathering mission that required two senior agents.

“Why?” Hill asked, eyes narrowed threateningly.

Phil studied the uncanny resemblance. “You two have a lot of superficial similarities, and I think you'd find that you have a lot in common deep down too. You're both strong willed, intimidating, strangely tolerant of Barton's antics, obsessed with oranges...I'm starting to think the only difference is that she doesn't like coffee.”

Hill was the one driving, but she still managed to free a hand to hit him on the shoulder. “You know why I don't like Romanov? Yeah, I see the resemblance too, and I know what I'm capable of doing. I'm not giving her my trust until I know for sure that she's not waltzing into SHIELD like a Trojan Horse.”

Phil made a thoughtful humming sound. Hill gave him a meaningful sidelong look. “Look, Phil, I know she's apparently best buds with Barton, but don't let your romance cloud your judgment; for all we know, the Widow planned on using Barton's affection for her right from the beginning.

“I'm not in a romance with Barton,” Phil said exasperatedly. “We went out once. That was it. The second time he canceled on me because he didn't want me picking up on the fact that he had a little something with Romanov years ago.”

Hill was quiet for a while. Then she grinned meanly at him. “Oh, so, we're jealous, are we?”

Phil would hit her on the shoulder, but he didn't want to die in a humiliating car crash. No, that came later when they were returning from their mission and had the bad luck to be on the road with a drunk driver.

 

“Maria!” Phil yelled into the darkness. “Maria! Where are you?” He was about to shout again when a hand landed on his shoulder, and he woke up with a heart thumping gasp. He pushed himself up and nearly collided heads with the man sitting by his bed.

“Whoa, Coulson. Coulson, calm down!” Barton held his hands up harmlessly and waited for Phil to recognize him.

Phil fell back against the bed when severe pain lanced across his right side. “Ahh, that hurts,” he gritted out, barely aware that Barton was adjusting his IV line until the increase in analgesic took the edge off his discomfort.

“Bad luck, Coulson,” Barton said, resting a hand gently on his chest. “Three broken ribs; all on the right. The analysts think you got nailed by the car door when it got dented.”

“How's Mari—Agent Hill?”

“Agent Hill's got a broken arm to match her broken leg from February,” Barton reported. “She said she'll come visit and taunt you with coffee later this afternoon.”

“Joy,” Phil said hoarsely. His throat felt drier than dust, but he wasn't ready to ask Barton to feed him ice chips. “Is there a sip cup around?”

“Yeah, but—” Barton leaned out of view for a moment and brought up a bag of apples. “I have apples if you want something with glucose in it. Sorry, I didn't get a chance to peel them. I can do one now though, if you don't mind waiting.”

Phil smirked tiredly. “Can you peel it with a knife?”

Barton slid a penknife from his pocket. “That was the plan. I don't believe in those new-fangled objects like fruit peelers.”

Phil wanted to laugh, but he'd suffered a broken rib before, and he knew better. “So, impress me then.”

Barton showed himself to be a champion peeler: within a minute, the apple was completely peeled and cored and cut into bite-sized chunks. Barton hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the apple pieces. He sounded almost diffident when he asked, “Do you want a fork, or I could—?”

Phil heated up underneath his blanket. Barton's feeding him apple chunks wasn't much different from Barton's feeding him ice chips; it was all too intimate. On the other hand, he was right-handed, and it would be even more embarrassing to drop chunks of apple over his bedsheets.

He nodded stiffly. “If you don't mind.”

Barton just shrugged and pressed the first apple piece to Phil's lips. It should have been horribly awkward, but Barton seemed to get over his earlier shyness. Matter-of-factly, he just waited for Phil to finish chewing and then reached for another piece. Barton's calm was soothing, and Phil stopped feeling antsy at his vulnerable state; instead he ate in comfortable silence for a while.

“How is Romanov settling in?” Phil asked finally, shaking his head when Barton offered him another piece of apple.

“Nat's always going to be paranoid,” Barton said affectionately. “But I think she's starting to feel safe here. It's great that everyone's treating her like a regular agent. I'll see if she wants to start looking for her own apartment this weekend, unless she wants to keep sharing mine.”

“That's good,” Phil said neutrally. “And it looks like you're less lonely with her around.”

Barton looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess that's true.”

Phil nodded politely, still smiling blandly, and he was about to fake falling asleep, but Barton seemed to sense that he'd worn out his welcome and left with a pat to Phil's shoulder.

 

Phil stared at the paperwork—no little portion was due to Tony Stark—that had built up on his desk during his medical leave. He wanted to weep; instead he buried his head in his hands, feeling like a nap. He really needed to talk to Fury about streamlining the bureaucracy's paperwork system. That would save the world too.

“Hey, Coulson,” Barton popped his head around Phil's door, and Phil wondered when Barton had stopped knocking before entering. “You're out of the hospital.”

“I wish I was still there,” Phil mumbled into his palms. He didn't know if Barton could hear him, but judging by the man's sympathetic grin, he probably did.

“You know, we never did get that bowl of pho, and I want you and Nat to get to know each other outside of work. Maybe we can all go out this Saturday.”

That jolted Phil out of his pseudo-sleepy state. “Why?”

Barton had the nerve to look surprised. “Why what?”

“Why do you want me to spend time with Romanov?” Phil clarified, a little annoyed that he sounded like a teenager from a sitcom.

Barton now looked confused, but he had a tolerant smile. “It's traditional, isn't it? We're dating, and she's my best friend. Well, I guess Sitwell sort of fits, but you're already friends with him, so that doesn't really count.”

“This isn't fair, Barton,” Phil said as evenly as he could. He hadn't made Barton any promises, and he didn't want Barton to make any to him. This thing with Barton was getting out of control. How did an offhand agreement to go out once in a while transform into going steady? When they only went out once? There wasn't even any sex to confuse the issue.

“Okay,” Barton laughed. “I guess it isn't.” Phil was about to relax now that Barton had acknowledged that they didn't have a relationship.

“I'll spend time with Hill, even though she gives me the heebie-jeebies. Fair's fair. You can name the time and place,” Barton decided, completely misinterpreting Phil's complaint. Phil opened and closed his mouth a bit in flustered annoyance. Barton was being incredibly obtuse for an assassin who had once evaded SHIELD's forces for over a month.

“Look, Barton,” Phil tried again, exasperation finally making its way into his voice, and the man looked at him with attentive concern.

But, of course, the universe always hated Phil; Barton's cell phone went off, and before Phil could say anything, the other man left with a mouthed 'see you' as he answered his phone and pulled the office door shut.

 

At the little pho shop, Romanov ordered a large bowl with rare beef brisket, tendon, and tripe. Phil couldn't tell if she really did like those toppings, or if it was somehow meant to be an intimidating gesture. Not interested in courting food poisoning, Phil chose a large bowl with medium well done steak; he wasn't interested in having a pissing contest over Barton either. Barton asked for a large combination bowl with no apparent ulterior motives.

After the waitress left, the silence at their table was dampening. Romanov just looked straight ahead at Phil, and he returned her gaze composedly. Barton had been looking around the restaurant, eyes lingering on the colorful posters of the jelly drinks; then he sensed the tension and started to break it, but Romanov spoke first.

“You and Clint have been dating for several months now?” she asked curiously, no overt hostility in her voice.

“If you can call it that. We've only been on one date,” Phil gave the most honest answer he could without hurting Barton's feelings before they cleared things up alone. He wondered if he needed a contingency plan or two in case Romanov tried to break his legs afterward.

Romanov nodded understandingly. “It can be very difficult to find time for intimacy in vocations like ours.” Too late, Phil realized that he had sounded like he was complaining that they didn't go on enough dates.

Barton looked a little embarrassed. “I guess we really only did have one proper date, and missions together definitely don't count, but we eat at the cafeteria together almost every day, and I hang out in your office sometimes.”

Phil realized that Barton was right, and he stared at the man with some surprise. “I take that back then,” Phil said softly, as he thought the past couple weeks over. “I guess we've had a lot of dates.”

Clint gave him a brilliant smile, and Phil's heart began to thump harder. When their appetizers came, Phil bit into a fried egg roll and wondered how he could have been so dense. Even as he brushed the crispy crumbs from his fingers, Phil felt an inexorable pull to the other man, and he couldn't help but gaze at Clint in bewilderment.

The other man licked the hot oil from his lips, and Phil preoccupied himself with stirring his newly arrived noodles and breaking the huge clump into loose strands. Clint said something, leaning close enough for their faces to almost touch, and Phil tried not to think about brushing their lips together.

He startled when Clint grabbed his hand, pulling the wooden chopsticks away and rubbing each one hard against the other, the friction leaving dust on the table edge. “Careful,” Clint warned. “I could see you going for a splinter there.”

When Clint finished, he handed them back, and their hands touched. This time Phil didn't pull away.

 

Fury looked tense as usual, hands clasped on the conference table, as they reviewed the files. “Dr. James Harvin was a member of the scientific team that worked on the project that led to the Hulk. General Ross assured us that all the scientists were in custody, with the exception of those few thought to have perished during the initial shutdown. Dr. Harvin was one of those until a SHIELD agent brought this back from her mission.”

Fury moved a finger across his tablet, and a poorly developed picture of a middle-aged dark haired man appeared on all their screens. “It seems Harvin took the distraction to start a new life for himself; he's made contact with several different bio-terrorist groups who are willing to pay a lot for the information that he can give them.

“We've identified Harvin's most likely location, but we also need agents to watch the terrorist groups and ensure that they do not make final contact with him. Hill, you and Romanov will be taking A-1 agents to babysit the Sons of Anarchy. Sitwell, you'll take Hernandez and B-2 agents to babysit Data Phreaks. Coulson, you're with Barton and C-1. It will be your responsibility to decide whether you can take the good doctor alive if he makes a move.”

When the meeting ended, Phil was already thinking about the packing he would have to do once he got home. Since Fury hadn't specified an end time for the mission, it was likely going to be a few weeks while SHIELD and the World Security Council debated over James Harvin's fate.

“You know, when I first joined SHIELD, I though the alphabet labeling was a nice way to keep track of ranking without really rubbing it into people's faces.”

Phil glanced over. “You thought you were a third-rate agent?”

“It was a blow to my pride, Coulson, but I was new, so I wasn't expecting seniority or anything other than grunt work for a while.” Clint tossed his apple from lunch up and down, found another apple in another pocket, and began juggling them. “Then I figured that the labeling had to do with skill set or personality. Something like that.”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

Clint gave him a pointed look. “A-1 has the smartest, most perfectionist of the already pedantic people working here, so probably 'A' for 'anal.' B-1 has the class clowns—but the scary ones who grin while they try to disembowel you, like Bozo. C-1 is probably a joke about C-4, so we're the explosive (cute, huh?) personalities, the mavericks.”

“'We'?” Phil couldn't help but point out. “If your hypothesis is true, then I would think I fit A-1 a lot better.”

“Yeah, no, Coulson, you're one of us all right.” Clint looked satisfied. “I only date exciting people.”

Phil had to scoff at that. “I am not 'exciting,' Barton.” I'm boring and emotionally absent, and I'm not sure why you keep trying to date me. And I'm pretty sure you're going to give up and go after someone better any day now.

“So, you didn't sneak into Cuba to go after a rumored mint condition Captain America card?” Clint grinned at Phil's surprise and chagrin.

“...Who told you about that?”

 

Phil fully expected the mission to go badly. No one was going to die. They weren't going to fuck up the mission either. But he and Clint just wouldn't be able to interact professionally, and everything would be tense and strained.

When Phil gave his first orders, he waited to hear some grumbling, overt or not, but Clint acted as he always did, acknowledging Phil with a crisp, “Got it,” or a quick salute of the fingers when talking was ill-advised.

“It's eight o'clock, Hawkeye,” Phil finally said the third night. “Our cameras are set up, and his phone line's been bugged. Harvin's not going anywhere, so you might as well sleep in an actual bed tonight. Leung and Durand can take over the surveillance.”

Clint yawned loudly and cracked his back a few times as he shoveled down the Alfredo pasta mix that Phil had made with advice from Agent Moretti. “It's kind of sad that safe house pasta is better than what we get in the cafeteria.”

“Quality control,” Phil said absently, scraping the rest of the pasta from the pot into a plastic bowl and tucking it into the refrigerator. “SHIELD's cafeteria needs to feed more than 400 people every day, and that's not counting the agents and techs out on missions, so it's rather difficult to prepare the food consistently well.”

Clint was quiet for a moment. “Really? I just thought Fury was too cheap to hire the good chefs.”

Phil smirked. “That too.”

Clint cleared his plate and soaked it in the scummy sink before raising his arms and making a few noises of real discomfort. “I think I really messed up my shoulder. Must have rested on it wrong.”

Phil watched in concern. Hawkeye could shoot with either hand, but he preferred his left for a reason. “I should have insisted that you take more frequent breaks.” He knew that having a relationship with a subordinate agent would unduly affect his judgment in the field.

Clint's head snapped up. “Hey, none of that. I should have known my limits. Anyway, it's not a big deal; it'll be fine after I take a hot shower.”

Phil's fingers itched to feel the contours of Clint's shoulders; they looked solid and well-shaped. “I could work the knots out,” he offered hesitantly.

Clint grew still, and his eyes searched Phil's. “We're on a mission; you're okay with crossing that boundary?”

Phil did want to take his offer back, but it seemed a bit foolish to deny Clint his help. “It's just a back rub, Barton,” he said dryly. “I'm not offering anything else.”

Clint chuckled and then groaned softly in appreciation, as Phil began massaging the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He concentrated on the left shoulder and curled his fingers tight around the ball of the shoulder and eased the tension from the sore limb. Pressing harder into the warm flesh beneath his hands, he soothed the strained tendons and ligaments with welcome pressure. He kept massaging until Clint looked limber and relaxed; then he just rested his fingers against Clint's shoulder, feeling the up and down of Clint breathing softly.

When Clint abruptly turned around and kissed him, it felt completely natural.

 

“Hey, stranger,” the voice drawled the vowels out. “Going my way?” Clint grinned flirtatiously at him, and Phil unlocked the side door.

“I thought you were hitching a ride with Jasper to visit the Turquoise Trail.”

Clint shrugged his shoulders lazily, slumping against the passenger seat. “I don't think he's very happy with his new ringtone. Can't blame me if he's got no taste.”

Phil's lips twitched. “Which song was it?”

“'Who Let the Dogs Out',” Clint answered solemnly, mouth already turning into a smirk. “I need to nap, and I don't think I'd be safe with him.”

“Good call.”

Phil drove down the long winding roads while Clint slept, and amused himself by counting the gas stations and convenience stores that they passed. Every so often, he glanced at Clint's sleeping face; Clint didn't stir, his sleep deep and peaceful, so he looked his fill. They were half-way to the airport when Clint woke up and rubbed a hand over his tired face.

“I needed that, but now my head's all fuzzy. I hate it when that happens,” Clint sighed, as he chugged some water.

Phil kept one eye on the road and tossed the leftover packet of donuts into the other man's lap. Clint picked it up and eyed the sugary goods dubiously. “Half the pack's gone. How'd you eat them without getting powdered sugar all over your suit?”

“I used a napkin,” Phil responded sensibly. “There are some in the glove compartment. There.”

Clint ate a few donuts before wetting a napkin and wiping his hands fastidiously. “Want me to drive the rest of the way?”

“Sure.”

They switched seats, and Phil was about to lean back for his doze when Clint tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Phil.”

He opened his eyes and got a mouthful of powdered sugar as Clint pressed their lips together, grinning, right hand still holding the other donut half. Phil should have been annoyed, but all he could do was laugh and lean in for another kiss.

 

Phil yawned as he balanced his cup of coffee and breakfast bagel in one hand and opened his office door with his free one. As soon as his laptop booted up, the screen flashed with a message about Agents Barton and Romanov's early access of the gym.

Phil watched Clint and Natasha spar, exchanging quick blows, leaping out of reach, whipping kicks at each other's limbs. They looked involved with their practice, but they were probably just blowing off steam before starting their day. He knew Clint, and he was getting to know Natasha pretty well too, and it didn't look like either of them had suffered one of their insomnia-filled nights. He had warmed up to Natasha in the past couple of months since she'd made SHIELD her home, but he had to admit that he felt a bit jealous of the way she connected with Clint, the common memories they had created before SHIELD, the way they knew each other's moods so intimately.

Clint and Natasha followed through on a few more jabs at each other before finishing up. Phil started clapping, partly to show genuine appreciation and partly to be obnoxious. Clint waved him off with an affectionate roll of the eyes, and Natasha acknowledged him with a sardonic touch to her heart.

“Nat and I are going to jog to Jamba Juice. You want to come with?” Clint offered.

Phil was still feeling full from his bagel-and-coffee mixture. “No, I already had a cup of coffee; I'll be fine.”

A few hours later, Phil wiped the sweat from his forehead and fiddled with the temperature control panel on the wall behind his desk. The day was getting hotter than he'd expected; he wondered whether to blame global warming or the weather forecast. A tall white cup glistening in condensation landed on his desk, followed by a straw still in its paper wrap. “Ta dah,” Clint announced. “I hope you like Peach Perfection.”

“Thank you,” Phil said gratefully, decorum curtailing his urge to lunge unbecomingly for the chilled smoothie.

“You know, I think Natasha and I are single-handedly keeping the Jamba Juice on King and Fourth in business. We had a smoothie drinking contest, and we each had about five before we had to stop.”

Phil shook his head, taking another long, luxurious sip of his drink. “I wouldn't believe the Black Widow would participate in a smoothie contest before I saw how Natasha relaxes around you.”

“We bring out the best in each other,” Clint said nonchalantly. “It was all her idea to ambush Jasper with the web blasters last week.”

Phil put his drink down on the desk. “You made the right call, bringing her into SHIELD.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “It wasn't a one-man operation. You caught me before I could run off, remember? Then you made Fury and me talk.”

“I meant that you were right about giving Natasha a chance to change her path. Sometimes SHIELD gets too focused on preemptive measures, and it would have been the wrong decision that time, even though we might not ever have known it.”

“Well, got to give you props for prodding the truth out of me.” Clint's smile was a soft glow.

“I was pretty annoyed at being dropped so suddenly,” Phil admitted sheepishly. “Mostly I did want to see what was going on with you, but I was also feeling a little disgruntled about the cancellation.”

“Is it mean of me to be happy that it bothered you?” Clint brushed his hands over his t-shirt and jogging pants cursorily before picking up the gym bag he'd left by the door. “Come over tonight?”

“Of course.” Phil watched Clint leave before opening the next report on his screen; this one needed to be unlocked. Huh, that was interesting: an update on Dr. Selvig's work on the Tessarect.

 

Natasha was kind: she didn't sneak up on him. Her footsteps echoed clearly through the hall before she stopped right beside his head as he dutifully followed the stretching routine his physical therapist had designed. “He wants to see you,” she said simply.

Breathing heavily, Phil pulled his aching arm back to his chest and rested against the mat. He resisted the urge to touch the tender spot on his chest. “I'm not getting that feeling. Maybe it's because he walks the other way every time he sees me. But maybe I'm misinterpreting things.” Natasha doesn't deserve his ire, but he's tired and stressed, and he thinks he was right to be wary about loving Clint.

“He thinks he helped Loki stab you,” Natasha countered a bit impatiently. “You know he's an overly responsible idiot sometimes. He needs to know you don't blame him.”

Phil lay there quietly.

“Do you blame him?” Natasha asked suddenly, eyes widening in dismay.

“No, of course not. I just—” Phil sighed, wishing he could outrun Natasha and avoid her probing questions. “You're not our couples counselor. We both need to think some things over.”

Natasha sat on the edge of the matting. “You're an overly responsible idiot sometimes too. I could tell right from the beginning when Clint told me about you.”

“What do you mean?” Phil asked warily.

“He told me he was trying to date a man from work, and that it wasn't going too well. He said that you were the cautious type, and he was worried that you wouldn't ever open up to him.”

Phil closed his eyes. It just figured that the Black Widow would poke him right in the vulnerability. “I don't think it's a good idea for two people in the same high-risk job to care too much for each other,” he said weakly.

Natasha's voice was soft. “I know you were afraid that he wouldn't come back from Loki. I know that you searched the CCTV camera footage for him every night. And I know that you would have punched Loki in the face if he hadn't stabbed you first.

Natasha didn't wait for Phil to work out his conflicting feelings. “I'll send you the schedule for his counseling sessions. He's been showing up consistently for those, and he wants to get clearance as soon as possible, so he won't try to miss any on purpose.”

After she left, Phil finished the last rep for his exercises and took a long shower, remembering the way he had followed Clint into the changing rooms for a vital confrontation. When he was newly suited up in his usual tie and coat, he finally decided what to do.

 

Clint didn't look particularly pleased to see him, but he thanked Dr. Yoon politely and waited for Phil to rise from the padded bench before walking towards the garages. He already had his motorcycle keys in hand and was swinging them restlessly in the air. “You look a lot better, less drawn,” Clint finally said, as they waited in the elevator.

“You look like you've been getting more sleep,” Phil returned neutrally. “I had a friendly visit from Natasha yesterday. She told me that I was acting like an idiot.”

Clint's lips pressed together. He didn't laugh, but the darkness in his eyes lifted a bit. “Funny, I had a visit from Natasha too. She said a lot more than that to me.”

“Well, she's your best friend, not mine. She has the right to give you a hard time and call you names and make you wonder why you're friends with her.”

Clint shoved his jacket into the little hatch and then grabbed one of the helmets hanging from the handlebars. He hesitated before offering it to Phil. “I'll take you home.”

Phil kept a tight grip around Clint's waist as they sped through the city streets to his apartment; he felt Clint's stiffness beneath his hands, but he felt no sympathy. Clint shouldn't have offered the ride if he wanted to keep his distance; after all, Phil wasn't about to risk falling backwards into the street.

When they stopped for a traffic light, Phil raised his head and remembered the last time Clint had taken him on the motorcycle. They had just found Captain America, and Phil had been too thrilled with the news to sleep, so Clint had suggested a midnight run to the late night diner open near the docks. They had eaten pancakes smothered with syrup and butter before sitting on a pier to digest their meal and talk about random topics. Later, he had almost fallen asleep against Clint's back as they made their way to Clint's apartment, and Phil had slept there in the same bed for the first time. It had been the most romantic night of Phil's life to date.

Phil climbed off the motorcycle and handed back the helmet. “Come inside for a moment,” he said, turning to his door and fumbling for the lock.

As always, Clint's presence seemed to at once dim and brighten his small apartment. His living room and kitchen, cosy but cheap, seemed all the more special having an Avenger there; but Clint seemed somehow to out-size the walls, making them seem confining and oddly grim.

Clint had reluctantly followed him inside, but he didn't sit down on the couch or at the kitchen stools. “It's late; I need to get back to my place.”

“You should stay here,” Phil argued calmly, and he pulled Clint close to him, their heartbeats thudding together in tandem, and he pressed a kiss to the firm lips that hadn't seen a smile in days. “Stay with me, Clint.”

He meant to sound seductive, maybe a little teasing, but a note of desperation entered his voice, and his kiss turned hard and hungry. His body grew painfully hot as Clint returned the kiss, deepening it to include tongue, and pushed him onto the couch, the knitted cover twisting askew underneath their bodies.

Clint cupped the back of his neck with one hand, and the other dipped down to wander up his shirt and appreciate the play of muscles tensing. When the hand reached the sensitive scarring, Phil held his breath, and Clint stopped there, and his fingers lay there gently, passively feeling the rough flesh and newly generated skin. “Does it hurt?” Clint breathed into his neck.

“A little,” Phil admitted reluctantly. “But I'm sure you know how to distract me.” He lay more fully on the couch and let his legs fall open, inviting Clint to fill up the open space. The pressure of Clint's body lit the burning fires in his sparking nerves, and he gasped loudly as Clint slid a hand slowly down his stomach and finally began fiddling with his pants, undoing the catch and pushing the cloth down his thighs.

He reached hurriedly for Clint's jeans, and soon they were pressing together, sweaty and hot, and with no barriers between them. With a heavy groan, Clint wrapped a strong arm around his waist and started thrusting against him. Phil tilted his hips to better match Clint's movements, and the intense pleasure of their bodies working and pushing together itched intensely down his spine.

Phil knew he was leaving painful bruises and tearing nail marks on Clint's back and biceps, but he'd never before felt the consuming desire to pull someone into his body or to completely devour theirs. His breathing quickened and rasped harshly into the air, as his body filled with tension to be released, yet he couldn't quite reach the end, not yet.

Clint mouthed his shoulder hard, tongue flicking out to taste his skin, and Phil pulled his head up and ordered hoarsely, “Look at me.” Clint's darkened eyes came up, and Phil searched his eyes urgently, finding the man he knew, before satisfaction finally hit, and he saw Clint's eyes turn half hooded as he finished after pushing once last time against Phil's stomach.

“Too bad that didn't fix everything,” Clint joked, voice a bit muffled as he lay a few more affectionate kisses on Phil's neck. Satiated, Phil still didn't loosen his hold on Clint's back, but the man didn't seem to mind, and he stayed where Phil wanted him.

“I was afraid,” Phil whispered in the hush of their quiet breathing. “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come back, and I felt like such an idiot for holding you at arm's length. I regretted it even though you did come back.”

Clint pulled back a little and studied him contemplatively. “You know what you can do? You can reassure me by asking me out. It's only fair since I did the hard work the first time.”

“That's ridiculous,” Phil protested half-heartedly, shifting under Clint's weight. “This isn't an after school special.”

“Come on, Coulson,” Clint grinned, eyes playful underneath his lashes. “I want to feel special. I'm waiting for you to make my day here.”

“Night.”

“No, it's not even 6 yet. It's day. Now, say it.”

Clint was heavy, and pushing him away didn't work, so Phil gave an exaggerated sigh before drawing Clint closer. “Clint Barton,” he murmured against Clint's lips. “I'm surprised to find that I really like you, and I want you to go out with me. And I want a commitment.”

“Okay,” Clint responded simply, his eyes tender and his lips soft and loving. “Okay,” he said again, and that was really all Phil needed to hear right then.

 

A/N: I have another Phil/Clint story in the works, but I feel that a lot of my better ideas went into this story, and I'm not sure if the second story can work that well as a complete story. I guess I'll see how the brainstorming plays out. Anyway, it was great to get back into the Hawkeye fandom.


End file.
